by Layla Hagen
"It's in the afternoon, but you go to the meeting with the agency," James says.
"Don't miss it on my account," I say.
He lifts my chin with his fingers. "You're far more important than any meeting." He drops his voice to a whisper. "You're more important than anything."
The glint in his eyes is gone. There's nothing forced about his smile. The smile that makes my heart beat faster and everything seem lighter.
"I'll go inside to Jess," Parker says. "Remind me to finish that story later, Serena."
No reaction from James. He leans in to kiss me after Parker is gone, but I pull back. I am not as willing as Parker to let the matter go so easily.
"What was that?"
"What do you mean?” he asks, but the way his head jerks up and his jaw tights, he knows exactly what I am talking about.
"Your Othello reaction when you saw Parker."
"It wasn't that bad," he says, and the smile he now flashes is truly forced.
"Yes it was," I insist. "You are seriously jealous of your cousin?"
Sweat breaks out on his forehead. "Serena, can we please drop this?"
"Why? I don't want you to feel like you have to be jealous of anyone. Especially Parker."
"I know." He takes both my hands and pulls me in a gentle embrace, burying his head in my neck. "I know you're mine. Only mine." His words send shivers down my spine. The wrong kind of shivers. He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself of the fact that I really am only his. His heartbeats reverberate against my chest in violent, lightning quick drums that betray an inner turmoil he so desperately tries to cover.
It's my wish to put a stop to whatever might cause him such misery, that makes the words I wanted to wait at least a few weeks before saying, slip out.
"I love you, James."
My confession does not have the effect I hoped for. Quite the opposite. His hands go rigid around me. His whole body stiffens. Jess warned me that men sometimes react like this, but I was not expecting it from James. For a few horrifying seconds, neither of us moves. Then I take a step back and instantly regret it.
It's not just his body. His eyes, his beautiful, blue eyes have a coldness to them that slays me to the core.
"I can't do this," he says.
I panic. "No, I'm not expecting you to say it back, I just—"
He shakes his head and gestures with his left forefinger from me to him and back. "I can't do this. Us."
Didn't he tell me just a minute ago that I'm more important than anything? Did I imagine that? I must have, because this doesn't make any sense.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm sorry," he replies but his eyes remain as cold as ever.
I fold my arms over my chest and look pointedly at my feet. I can't stand looking him in the eyes one second longer. I wish I could form an ice shield from the coldness in his eyes and wrap my heart in it. Maybe that would protect it.
Maybe then it wouldn't shatter.
But I have no shield. And no amount of waiting will create one.
I take a deep breath but all I can mutter are disjointed, cracked stutters. "You're… breaking up with me?"
"Yes."
He says the word once, but it echoes a thousand times in my skull. As if my brain needs to hear it again and again. As if once wasn't bad enough. Cruel enough. Strong enough to crush my mind.
It crashes my body all right.
My feet give in first and I find myself losing height. It's only when I hit the cold, hard floor that I realize I'm nowhere near the chairs anymore. It doesn't matter. The floor and wall I'm leaning on are just as good. I can't breathe. No, I can, but every gulp of air hurts so much I wish I could stop breathing altogether.
When I look up, he's gone.
When did he disappear?
Why did he leave?
Why?
Why?
What did I do? What did I say?
I rehash the conversation in my brain, but either my brain is too fuzzy or I'm in complete and utter denial and can't make sense of anything.
I admonished him about Parker. But didn't I then tell him I loved him? Didn't that make everything all right? Did it make everything worse?
I don't know how long I stay like this, crouched against the wall, soaked in cold sweat, but as I stand up, frantically rubbing my arms to chase the cold away; I still can't let go of the question.
Why?
I know the only way to get an answer is to talk to him. Really talk to him. Without having a meltdown. I get out my phone and play with it for a while, then decide against calling him. I want to look him in the eyes when he answers. Cold or warm, harsh or welcoming, however they might be, I want to gaze into them. Perhaps I'm masochistic, perhaps I'm just looking for an excuse to see him one last time, but whatever the reason, it gives me a refreshing sense of strength, concocted perhaps from the ashes of the flaming agony that had me crouched against the wall like a lost child.
I head to the elevator with a determination that startles me. Some, like my mum, would say I have no pride. But I never thought much of pride anyway. It's nothing more than a universally accepted excuse people put forward when they are too terrified to do something. I am terrified too, but I want to know why. With Michael, I knew why. It was humiliating and heartbreaking, but at least I knew. I don't want to deprive myself of that knowledge now. If I'm damned to fall apart, I want to know why.
Jess's Prius is parked right in front of the hospital on the other side of the road. It's only after I start the engine that I realize I have no idea where to find James. It's six in the evening. He could be anywhere. I decide to drive to his apartment. He'll have to show up there eventually.
The ride takes much less time than I hoped it would, but maybe that's a good thing because by the time I slide out of the car, half of my dose of determination has evaporated.
I take a deep breath and push open the doors to his building. Daniel is behind his desk, as usual. He watches me with concern as I approach and it occurs to me that he hasn't forgotten the state I was in the last time I was here.
"Is Mr. Cohen at home?" I ask.
"No, miss. But you are welcome to wait for him in the lobby."
"That'd be great," I say putting on my fakest smile as he shows me to a room I hadn't seen before, at the end of the hall where the elevators are.
The room is surprisingly tiny for such a large building. It looks like a very cozy coffee shop, with small, round tables and metallic armchairs. I drop in one such armchair, the one furthest away from the door, then realize it was a lousy choice. From here, I have a perfect view of the door, and the little determination I have left seems to slip away with every glance to the door. I can't bail now. Daniel has seen me already. I take a few deep breaths and try to remember what brought me here in the first place.
Pain. Raw and slicing, that's what. If only the pain would slip away together with the determination.
But it doesn't. It burns brighter than ever, the flare of pain, spreading like a malicious root, invading every corner of my heart and my mind.
It burns brighter because I am closer now to him, and the memories are inescapable. Memories of passionate kisses and long, happy hours. Memories of his touch on my skin and his laughter in my ear.
The memory of when he first hurt me.
And I know, as Daniel's voice fills me with dread, telling James where I am, that he will hurt me again. But isn't this why I came here? To ask him why he left me. To ask him to hurt me.
I leap to my feet and step behind the chair, leaning on it with my elbows for support. I hold my breath when he enters the room, but the sight of him doesn't bring the crushing blow I was prepared for. Quite the opposite. Possibly because his eyes don't bear the slightest trace of that glacial coldness. There's a deep desperation in them that puzzles me. The question he pops puzzles me even more.
"You drove here by yourself?"
"No, I flew on a magical carpet. Of course I drove here."
"You'd care?"
"Of course," he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.
I stare at him, confused. And maybe it's the confusion, or the inexplicable wisp of hope that blooms in my chest, but asking the dreaded question isn't as daunting as I feared. Still, it doesn't come out stronger than a whisper.
"Then why did you break up with me?"
He clasps the back of the armchair with both hands and stares at the metallic contour with an uneasy frown.
"I'm not good for you, Serena."
Not the answer I was expecting. It's not even an answer really, but the bloom of hope explodes in a thousand tiny drops of relief at his words. It wasn't because of something that I did after all.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"
He snorts. "Because I had a taste of how our life together would be, and you wouldn't put up with it for very long. Not that I'd blame you."
"What are you talking about?"
"The scene with Parker."
"What about it? We discussed it and put it behind us."
He shakes his head energetically. "No, we didn't. That's not how it works."
"That's not how what works? Stop acting like a crazy person and tell me what's going on."
Silence. I don't know how many minutes pass before he asks quietly, "Do you want to know how Lara died?"
Wham.
A punch square in my chest wouldn't cut my breath short the way his words do. I can't form any kind of answer but he goes on anyway.
"We'd been dating for most of high school. I wasn't the best of boyfriends. I was… let's say extremely jealous is a mild way to put it. We fought constantly. Especially our senior year—things turned really, really ugly. She wanted to go to Harvard, even though she'd been accepted to Stanford as well, and I was trying to change her mind by any means. The fight on graduation day was the worst of all. She said I made her life a living hell and took off in the car her parents gave her as a graduation present. She never showed up at the graduation ceremony."
He takes a deep breath and I clasp my palms to fists, my nails cutting into the flesh, because I think I know what will follow.
"The police found her a few hours later. She had crashed into a tree with the car."
I jerk up straight, covering my mouth with both hands. "That wasn't your fault, James," I whisper through my fingers.
"Wasn't it? The police didn't rule out the possibility that she might have crashed… willingly."
Torment and despair, in depths the likes of which I plunged myself during my darkest days, plague his voice. And his gaze. A painful knot forms in my throat when he finally looks up at me.
"She could've just lost control of her car. It happens to so many teens."
"Maybe. But even if she did, it's still my fault. She was so upset when she left."
So that's why he can't let go. It's the same reason I can't.
Guilt.
It consumes him still … for all the things he did.
As it consumes me for all the things I didn't do for Kate.
I'd say something to him, something encouraging or at least comforting, but I know better than anyone that no words can wipe the guilt away. I'd kiss him, the way he kissed me when I broke down in his arms that night in his penthouse, and at the hospital, but it would break my heart to do it. I'm not sure he'd want that anyway.
I'm not sure about anything anymore.
"She always reprimanded me for not getting professional help for my jealousy issues. Maybe she would still be alive had I done so. I started going to counseling after her funeral."
Parker knew about this. That explains why he didn't react like a normal person would when James yelled at him. The way he froze when we first met, at the party, and James told him I was there with him. Other images come to mind. Of James under that tree, recoiling when I accused him of being jealous. Of James in the bar. How close was Jason to having his nose broken that night?
I realize Parker isn’t the only one who knows about this. The lark also does. That’s why she said she knows James with such entitlement. Because she knew James during all those years he wants to forget about. Only she’s too stupid to let him forget about it, as her indiscretion at the airport proves—all in the name of making me feel small.
"Did counseling help?"
He gives a humorless laugh. "I never had any real relationship after Lara to test myself. I kept myself out of relationships on purpose. I think deep down I always knew that monstrous part of me was still there. Until you. I wanted so much for you and I to work."
He moves slightly, almost imperceptibly in his position, and I think that maybe he'll come to me. Maybe he'll close this awful distance. Then I realize I must have imagined it, because his stance behind the chair is as firm as ever.
"But you saw for yourself at the hospital how much all the years of counseling helped."
"So what, you had your first Othello relapse and decided to just bolt?" I say in a surprisingly strong voice.
"What else was there?"
"I was there, James. And you just took off."
I don't imagine it this time. In a split second, he's inches away from me, lifting my chin with his thumb. It's just a slight, innocent touch, but it's enough to set every nerve in my body on edge.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I promised not to hurt you again and I thought I was doing more harm than good if I stayed there."
"You not wanting me, that's what is hurting," I whisper.
"I do want you. God, Serena, you don't know how much."
That is a blessing to my ears, balm for my soul. The words I so needed to hear.
"Then don't do this."
"You deserve someone better. You deserve someone perfect."
"I want you."
You are perfect for me, is what I can't say out loud. Because nothing but another broken soul could be perfect for me.
"You do?" he asks under his breath. "After everything I just told you?"
"Yes," I whisper and without giving him any notice, I press my lips to his. For one frozen second I just stand like that, terrified that he will step back. Or push me away. But he doesn't. He pegs one hand at the back of my head, the other one around my waist, taking over the kiss. My mind, my heart. Taking all of me over. Our bodies are pressed against each other in a tender passion, searching for gratification in every touch, every breath.
Until we run out of breath. Literally.
I don't open my eyes right away when we break off. I want to savor the lingering flavor of his lips on mine for a few moments longer, but then his cell starts vibrating.
I run my hand to the inner chest pocket of his jacket, but he murmurs, seeking my lips again, "Leave it."
I do, but whoever is calling doesn't seem to want to leave him, because one second after the vibration stops, another short one follows. A message.
"You know, it's not healthy to keep this thing so close to your heart," I say and he smiles, holding his jacket open.
I clasp my fingers around the phone, retrieving it from the pocket. I was planning to drop it on the table and return to our kiss, but the strike of horror on James's face when he glances at the screen changes my mind. I turn the screen toward me.
I wish I hadn't.
Because the words on the screen reduce my whole world to a bottomless pit.
You forgot your wallet. I can come by tonight and bring it.
The sender: Natalie.
For a moment I think that the earth beneath might indeed have opened in an abyss and swallowed me, because everything before me goes black. But then suddenly James is standing in front of me, talking, and I think I preferred the darkness.
"You went to her?" I whisper, taking a step back, because his proximity is too much to bear.
"Yes, but—"
"Did you sleep with her?"
His answer comes a fraction of a second too late and too tense. "No."
"You're lying."
"I'm not," he says and makes a motion toward me, raising his hands as if to take me in his arms.
"Don't you dare touch me."
"Serena—"
"Why did you go to her?"
He lowers his hands, answering in a defeated voice. "I wanted to distract myself. I wanted to forget you and everything that happened between us. I wanted to get the idea that I could ever be in a normal relationship out of my mind."
"I can't believe you had the nerve to give me your teary self-pity talk after you had sex with another woman."
"I did not have sex with Natalie. We didn’t even kiss."
"Don't say her name."
"Nothing happened, I swear."
I snort and fold my arms over my chest. "Nothing, really? You said you went there to distract yourself."
"Serena, please. Listen to me. I admit I wanted to sleep with her, but I didn't. I couldn't. I thought of you and I just couldn't."
Every single word burns me. Not only my skin. My flesh, my bones. My very core. I need to get out. Before I turn to ashes. Before I reach that place from where there is no coming back. It can't take me more than ten steps to get out of this damned room. I can make ten steps.
"Believe me, please, I—"
"Don't say one more word, James," I utter in a broken whisper, stepping further and further away from him. "I can't believe I actually thought this could work."
He freezes in the act of walking toward me, shock apparent on every pore of his face. "Serena, I swear nothing—"
"I believe you, James. But you wanted it to happen. That was your first impulse. That's how it will always be. We have a misunderstanding, or a fight, or God knows what will happen, and you will rush into someone else's bed."
"No, I won't. It's only you for me. It'll always be only you."
"I want to believe that too, but I can't," I murmur.
By the time I realize what's going on, he's inches away from me, his sweet breath paralyzing me, his arms forming an inescapable chain around my waist.
"Don't leave. We belong together. You know this."
